Two More Tests

Nails

On a scale of one to chipped, my nails are currently at “I’m Prying Open Pistachios With Them And I Don’t Care”.

Unexpected HRT side-effect #4

I have no ability to regulate my temperature anymore. At least, not compared to how it used to be. Blazing sun? Sign me up! Below freezing? It’s all good! But... not anymore.

Now, that in and of itself wasn’t unexpected - pre-HRT, I read a comment from a trans girl to this exact effect (and indeed, that entire thread was the inspiration for this series of posts).

What really gets me is when and where my newfound lack of temperature tolerance likes to strike. Today, I was sweating bullets and getting flushed because I was eating soup. Soup!

I have two of note:

There’s an indentation above my right brow; when I was born, the obstetrician had to use forceps - and was a little too forceful in doing so. (Very few people realize this is a scar, however.)

On the left brow, there’s a half-inch long scar from a rejected eyebrow piercing (which I, alas, foolishly failed to address until it was too late).

For the most part, I’ve managed to avoid picking up scars; with the following exceptions:

A small circular scar on my upper arm, from a tuberculosis inoculation.

An identical scar, but from the removal of a mole whose countenance had offended my dermatologist in some capacity.

A constellation of minor scars on the torso, where I was struck by flying glass.

A line running halfway around the base of my index finger (a combination of accidental self-injury, and subsequent surgical repair efforts).

The various scars resulting from gender reassignment surgery (which included a laparoscopic component, so there’s a smattering of satellite scars on my abdomen).

Altogether, I’ve been pretty fortunate in this regard. 🙂

Do you have a facial scar?

Unexpected voice training side-effect #2

When I got my new car, I was delighted to learn that it came with a hands-free voice assistant. You press a button, and then the scene plays out as follows:

Car: Beep boop. “How can I help you?” Me: “Play that one sad song. I know, I know. That’s the kind of day it is.” Car: “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand.” Me: “Play that one song.” Car: “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand.” Me: “Just cancel.” Car: “I’m sorry-” Me: “CANCEL!” Car: “Cancelling.” Beep boop.

See, as awesome as this feature is, it really struggles to understand anything I actually say.

Until I started using my girl voice.

Legitimately! I’m not sure if this is simply because it’s in a higher pitch now (and the microphone can pick it up better); or if it’s because my accent has been slipping (and the original training data was chiefly American). Whatever the case: it’s a a welcome and unexpected reward for the work I’m putting in!

Sandwich

I have friends that are LGBT and (for reasons that are fairly obvious) refuse to eat at Chick-fil-A. However, they have family that continue to do so; and there's been an ongoing conversation on how said friends might convince said family to desist.

During that discussion, the subject of alternatives came up; and how the competing Popeye's chain serves a superior fried chicken sandwich. I wouldn't know - I've never eaten at Popeye's - but there's one in the area and I was exhorted to try it out.

That's exactly what I did - and what I can say is:

I'm not a huge fan of drive-through, but at least my voice training must be working because I got a "Will that be all, ma'am?"... That made my day!

It was a pretty good sandwich! Definitely a viable alternative to Chick-fil-A's; and also doesn't come tinged with the baggage of homophobia.

Would definitely go again!

After many attempts, I was able to record myself playing the piano. I had only been playing for about three months at this point.

For the curious - the audio was transmitted from the 1/4" headphone jack of my Yamaha P-71 to a Behringer U-Phoria UM2 audio interface, which in turn transmitted the signal to my laptop. Video was from a Logitech c920 webcam, suspended by a hilariously rudimentary wooden dowel armature.

(Alas, the webcam was primarily designed for video chat; hence the constant auto-focusing. Purportedly there is a Logitech utility for disabling this feature.)

I've mentioned before my newfound propensity for stage fright. Apparently this carries over into video recordings; despite the lack of audience and my complete control over the recording environment! The human brain is a strange and silly thing; regardless, it took about eight hours of attempts before I finally got an acceptable take...

Back in the day, in the pre-HRT times, I found it tremendously difficult to connect with my own emotions. One of the few ways I could do so (at least, partially) was with the accompaniment of appropriate music.

For me, Any Other Name was a quiet, contemplative piece by which I could access the piercing sadness, the constant hurt, that punctuated so much of my early life. I have at times dubbed it a 'suicide song'; although this is perhaps a misstatement: it was by listening to these gentle notes, that I was able to release that pressure and stave off a dark fate.

I no longer require the service of this incredible musical work; but I will not forget it in a hurry, or the tremendous aid it rendered me.

More charcuterie!

I had big plans to break out the charcuterie board for New Year’s Eve; alas, it was not to be. (There was - as is so often the case with these things - an unscheduled trip to the ER, which I’m sure I will detail at some point.) So everything got pushed back to New Year’s day instead.

My presentation is a bit lacking, and I wasn’t able to source tomato bruschetta or bacon jam; but the end result was still pretty delicious, and made up for an otherwise sucky time!

Dysphoria

After receiving our second COVID vaccine doses, my spouse, daughter and I all experienced side effects. Now, there isn’t an objective way to measure a person’s discomfort; but subjectively, it appears that I had a better time of things than they did.

Of course, this might not be accurate. I may be female now, but the majority of my life was spent operating under the rule of male gender norms. One such unspoken rule was that bearing one’s discomfort stoically was admirable, and complaining unseemly; and I internalized that.

(It is therefore entirely possible that we experienced equal degrees of malaise; but I sought to downplay mine.)

There is also a growing body of evidence to suggest that the side-effects are hitting XX chromosome-holders harder - possibly resulting from some kind of interaction between estrogen and the immune system.

(Alas, I could not test this theory as I was almost at the end of my estradiol cycle when we got our booster shots; and even then, my cycle only superficially emulates the far more complex interactions of the real thing.)

Whatever the case may be... It felt like another unwanted and unneeded reminder that despite legally changing my name, changing my pronouns, adopting a new wardrobe and updating my appearance, engaging in all manner of medical treatments... That I am, and always will be, a woman with an asterisk at the end of that word.

Maybe one day I’ll make peace with that fact... but not today.

Unexpected HRT side-effect #4: addendum

I’ve previously touched on how HRT has affected my ability to tolerate extremes of temperature. Today was an interesting illustration to that effect.

First, my wife - who is much wiser in these matters than I - took stock of the current temperature before going outside. (I generally choose my outerwear first and foremost based on what will compliment my current outfit, and then complain loudly while shivering in the car.)

She told me that it was currently 28ºF. In a former life I would have considered this ‘mild’; and maybe - maybe - thrown on a light jacket. Apparently I am learning however, because today I said to myself: “Twenty-eight degrees?! Time to break out the winter coat.”

'Standard Clitoris™'

Apologies for those that read the title with confusion and / or an injured sense of propriety; there is critical context here, I promise!

Act I:

Two years ago, I contacted Mt. Sinai's Center For Transgender Medicine And Surgery; with the intent of pursuing gender reassignment.

(The people there are lovely; but this was still an incredibly involved and rather stressful process, as (a) my health insurer required numerous hurdles be jumped before they would authorize the surgery; and (b) the Mt. SInai health system is located in New York, whereas I am quite definitively not.)

I ended up consulting with renowned vaginoplasty surgeon Dr. Miro Djordjevic. For those not in the know, Dr. Miro originates from Serbia; and while he speaks excellent English, he also has a flair for creating unusual turns of phrase that are as delightful as they are unexpected.

To transcribe this conversation (to the best of my recollection):

"Dr. Miro - what level of control do you have over the appearance of the new vulva?"

"Oh, Lauren; many young girls, they come in here with pictures of other women, they say: 'Dr. Miro, please can you make my new vagina look like this'. And I say, 'I cannot, I am sorry; for the final appearance is very dependent on your individual anatomy'. However, I understand this, and I will give you a very good vagina, a very beautiful vagina; you will see."

"Ah! This makes sense to me. Let me rephrase my question: once I am healed, I hope to have my clitoris pierced; but I understand that this requires the anatomy to be a certain way."

"Lauren, in many surgeries, you are the first girl that has asked this. But! The clitoris, this I can change! You tell me what size your clitoris should be, and I will do this for you."

Act II:

Thus, I visited my local piercing parlor; and provided my piercer with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to specify the exact dimensions and (and other qualities) of the clitoris that they would, in future, be piercing.

The takeaways were surprisingly straightforward:

The clitoris needed to be large enough to pierce (with an overall diameter of 10mm suggested as an appropriate target).

There needed to be sufficient space between the clitoris and clitoral hood to comfortably fit a Q-Tip.

So armed, I prepared for the day of surgery (a tale in its own right).

Act III:

It is the 9th of February, 2023; and I am currently sitting in the pre-op room, meeting the vast team of individuals who will shortly be participating in the surgical revamp of my genitalia (or the critical task of ensuring that I remain wholly unconscious during said revamp, but not so unconscious that, say, my heart stops).

It is here that I see Dr. Miro once again; and remind him of our previous conversation and my subsequent fact-finding mission regarding clitoral anatomy as it pertains to piercing suitability:

"Okay, so: my piercer says that the clitoris should be around 10mm in diameter; and that there should be enough space between the clitoris and hood to fit a Q-Tip."

...To which Dr. Miro wryly shook his head, and proceeded to hew from his English lexicon a brand-new term that has lived with me ever since:

"Lauren, Lauren! Why didn't you say? This is Standard Clitoris™! This is what I was going to give you anyway!"

...And so it was, as I rapidly drifted towards my robotically-assisted neovaginal destiny (and away from consciousness), that the primary thought looping through my mind was: "I should have known: the Standard Clitoris™"!